


The Lovers' Bliss

by red_edelweiss



Series: The Lady And Her Kitty [5]
Category: French History RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Bipolar Disorder (Mentioned), Cunnilingus (mentioned), Dom/sub, F/M, Gentle femdom, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV First Person, Period-Typical References, Poetic, Praise Kink, Priest Kink, pegging (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25590907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_edelweiss/pseuds/red_edelweiss
Summary: Since l'Eminence de Richelieu considers his desires shameful, it was only wise to realize them with a bravely shameless woman.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Lady And Her Kitty [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/970740
Kudos: 15





	The Lovers' Bliss

I like the meshwork of crow’s feet marking the corners of his eyes. I like, against the odds, red circles under them that never seem to disappear, I like them all the same. I like his eyes too. I like how gentle they are. I like how shyly they can look from beneath the curtain of gray eyelashes.

I like when, lying on my side, I have him in front of me and I am able to just admire, to my heart’s content. It is never content enough.

Maturity did not manage to destroy what is best with him; his facial features are elegant, his moustache and goatee are neat. I reach out to brush off a strand of his hair from his forehead. A silver thread my tenderness is trimmed with.

I want to open my mouth and tell him all of this, and thousand other things, but I am preempted.

“Aren’t you… disgusted by me?” he asks and his brown eyes gaze at me in boundless sadness.

What?

Time stops to a halt. Stars stop in their eternal journey on the circles of their orbits. In the first moment, I do not understand the question.

“I…” I start slowly. Very slowly. “Why did you… Why–”

A sudden, unpleasant thought strikes me. I turn my head to glance over my shoulder, as much as my current position allows it. With the corner of my eye I can see the place on the floor where I dropped both the harness and the… “widow’s comforter”. In this case, cardinal’s comforter, to be precise. Or at least I hoped for it to be.

“Does it… have anything to do with what we’ve just done?”

“Yes.”

My stomach sinks. I look back at him.

“Armand, did I make you feel worse with this?” I fail at keeping my tone inquiring, it is obvious I am terrified of the perspective. “Please, be honest with me – did I hurt you in any way?”

He shuts his eyes close, gives out a quiet sniff and I feel like I am being buried five feet under the ground.

“Lord Almighty, I did.”

“No!” he sniffs again. “You could never…!”

“Then why…”

“It’s not that!”

I clench my teeth. When we were making love everything seemed to be satisfying. I tried to get him in the mood for it, I always do, I swear – no matter how giving he is, there is no pleasure to find in an embrace if I cannot see myself reflected in his eyes. I asked, a couple of times, he begged for it, I thought I was gentle. The way he shivered and cried out under me, the way his body reacted, all of that never once indicated that there was something causing him any distress. Why now it is suddenly wrong?

“Armand, what’s going on?”

He’s going to cry. I recognize it, he’s going to cry. He shuts his eyes so tightly and he’s gripped the pillow like a drowning man holding onto the rope thrown to him.

“I’m appalling!”

“Why?”

“Why are you still in my bed?!”

“Armand!” I say, firmly, knitting my brows. He immediately falls silent. His eyes snap open, like on command. He sees my expression – a concerned noise escapes him.

“Armand, tell me what you mean,” I say. Worry still weighs in my stomach, I have to understand, I am determined. “You think you’re appalling, why? You ask me if you’re disgusting, why?”

I get nothing except a shaky breath and an alarmed gaze because I changed my tone and he is so sensitive to all my moods, trying to always keep me happy, content. My generous seraph, who deserves happiness and content much more than me.

If my firmness will not get an answer, my tenderness will.

“Why are you shutting the window frames tight in front of your nightingale, my lovely one? She cannot sing to you then.” A blink. Then another. The slightest tremble of the pale lips. “If I’m your summertime, as you all me, why you stubbornly stay inside cold walls? What is worth my summer if you’re not basking in it, if I don’t see you enjoying it? Demeter cursed the whole world with frost when her daughter was taken from her. It was just one person but the one closest to her heart. Shall I also turn into merciless, colorless winter because my Armand doesn’t want to be near me?”

“Mhm!…” he makes a noise and I see how his free hand darts to his lips. I allow it; both the sound and the look in his eyes are familiar, I know he will not bite strongly, as he has an unfortunate habit to do so.

He does not bite. He barely takes a nibble, grazing his teeth along his skin. I smile. “Good boy,” I coo. “So?”

He drops his gaze, out of habit, I think – and makes another noise when he realizes that in this position he is not exactly able to _not_ look at me. I cannot tell which part of my naked body he glanced at but his head immediately jerks up and he blushes.

He is wonderful.

“What’s wrong, my love?”

“I… It-it’s just…” He gulps. “What we did was… It… It… felt good.”

“Good.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“Yes.”

An unshakeable logic, I think but I would never say it aloud. “Why it’s a problem?”

“I… Shouldn’t enjoy such things. They’re… unmanly. Immodest. Immoral. Improper. Indecent.” Each word is spoken in a hollower and hollower tone, but it is not what frightens me. What frightens me are the subtleties my poetic ear catches: that it feels like he was reading from a list. An alphabetized one. How _familiar_ he exactly is with these adjectives? “I’m… I’m so sorry I agreed,” his lips tremble, eyes lose focus, “I shouldn’t have…”

“Armand.”

He whimpers painfully but seems to be called back to reality. “Um…?”

“So you think I am engaging in immoral, improper, indecent deeds?” I tease, forcing down my concern. There are better things to focus on. “Such a low opinion of me, your Eminence, I had no idea!”

“No! No, no, no!” his face ashens. “Marie, no, please, I’m-!!“

“Armand,” I say and I put a finger against his lips. It silences him immediately. “Shhh. Good boy.”

I sigh and I slide closer to him – so close that tips of our noses almost touch each other. I lift my leg and I put it over his own pair, I wrap an arm around his lithe, thin frame in a protective hold. He shivers violently but doesn’t dare to speak.

“Mhm…!”

“I like your body as it is,” I say. I have a suspicions what is happening in his mind. I learn about his self-hate, more about it every day after day. He cannot believe I may like cold limbs, wheezed breath, straight hair and jutting hip bones, anything so unlike a modern male ideal, young, sturdy, strong. “I want to hold you like this, close to my heart.”

“Mhm…!”

“You’re beautiful,” I sigh. “I always found your type of beauty so perfectly reflecting nowadays art. True, there’s fashion but fashion changes from year to year, unable to decide on its exact cut and colors. There are things less fleeting. The spirit, the tune, the meaning of decades, centuries… You are both the content and the form. The mind of a classicist critic and the character full of similar intensity Italian paintings are so famous for. Now it’s so obvious to me, why I fell in love. How couldn’t I, if God let me see spirit of the art entrapped in a human body?”

“Oh, Marie, _Marie_ …!”

He trembles. He trembles, although it is because of a completely different reason than before. He is vulnerable, he is exposed and he is insatiable – his amber eyes burn, his lips are parted and I notice that even the little space I left between us is too much for him. He still grips the pillow, I know he has to, but I also feel how his free hand, shaking, tries to touch me. It ghosts over the curve of my hip, fearful to mar a holy relict, but so, so tempted to do so.

“Now, as for your desires,” I continue, “I do admit they rarely manifest in men. My female psyche of course can understand a pleasure one gets from being…” a smile plays upon my lips, “ _conquered_. Right now, I can think of only one man, whose desires might have been of a somewhat similar ilk.”

Armand licks his upper lip. “Who?”

“Alexander the Great.”

He whimpers in reply but I know that kind of whimper, I learned by now. Cool, delicate fingertips finally dared and now stroke the skin of my hip in circles.

“I find the possibility very convincing, actually,” I continue. “Extraordinary men have the courage to reach for things far beyond the understanding of a simple commoner; they excel at bravery, at spirit, at intellect. Therefore, it’s only logic that dictates their needs shall also be extraordinary. Besides… Aren’t the conquerors the few brave ones, who are confident to not fear being conquered? Aren’t they allowed to indulge in such practices because they proved themselves in a thousand ways already? Why, isn’t it only natural?”

“Marie!…”

Armand squirms in my hold. The caressing, pleasant fingertips on my hip get bolder. They start to stroke my thigh and I am a woman, I know what it means.

“Treasures exist to seize them. Stars wait to be discovered, and claimed, and named.”

“Marie, Marie, please…!”

“Ah, and guardian angels, were they not created by God to belong to people?”

“Please, please, I beg…!”

I laugh. I take off my arm from him, I place my palm on his chest and I run it down, to his abdomen. My God, he is so aroused, even his nipples are erect.

And they are not the only thing that is erect.

“You have a virility of a much younger man, Armand,” I purr. “Yet your skill and experience fit your age. Oh, my good boy, you make me feel so lucky…”

He spasms in pure bliss at that, his eyes gleam with passion. The hand no longer strokes, it grabs my thigh, violently, simply unable to restrain itself any more. I moan at the sensation, it is not unpleasant at all. Forceful, a bit, but not unpleasant.

It only makes the lustful ache between my legs stronger. The scorching burn beneath my abdomen awoke right after his first groans of pleasure this evening and never really went away. He always manages to incite me so quickly…

“MARIE, PLEASE!”

I laugh again and as in a haze, I grab his hand, I tear it off my body, I shift my legs apart and I shove it right where it belongs.

The mere awareness it is his palm pressed against my sex, that these are his fingers, this alone makes me clench in animalistic anticipation of pleasure. He feels that, of course he does, and he cries out my name, spasming again; the tip of his erection hits me in the leg, wetting the spot with precum.

“I’m soaked since the moment I used my fingers on you,” I purr in a husky tone, narrowing my eyes. My cheeks burn. “I was so wet while pegging you. Good Lord, you’re a miracle! Such an erotic man, enslaved in a cardinal’s robe. Even in this, a correctness exists. Your love deserves its price in carnal sin, it deserves everything.”

“I want to touch you…! Oh, Marie, please, please! Allow me…!!”

Now _that is_ what I prefer to hear.

I kiss him quickly, merely a peck on the lips. “Go between my legs,” I breathe. “I want your silver tongue. I’ll give you something to focus on.”

His cry of pure relief is stimulating like nothing else in the world. He obeys without a second thought, changing his position. And when he finally lies between my legs and feverishly presses his mouth to the inward skin of my thighs, I moan praise.

“Such a good boy!… Now, please me.”

He whimpers. “I will!”


End file.
